alifornia 
;ional 

ility 


dys  (romwell 


THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


The  Gates  of  Utterance 

and  Other  Poems 


BY 
GLADYS   CROMWELL 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &•  COMPANT 


35-0-5" 
^ 

(f 


TO 
ANNE  DUNN 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GATES  OF  UTTERANCE 1 

THE  RIDERS  .      ••:'.'•      •      •      •      •      •      •      •  2 

COMPENSATION 3 

REALITY 4 

THE  BAT 5 

THE  AUDIENCE 7 

To  FRANCE    ..........  10 

APPROACH 12 

DEFINITION r- 13 

EMBLEMS 14 

THE  POET'S  THRIFT 15 

SOLICITUDE 16 

ASPIRATION 17 

JOY 18 

EDUCATION 19 

EVIDENCE 20 

PROGRESSION 21 

INTUITION 22 

KINDRED         23 

RESIGNATION 24 

SOLACE  OF  SEASONS 25 

THE  FOUNTAIN 26 

THE  THRESHOLD       ........  27 

THE  HERMIT  28 


PAGE 

INTERPRETATION 29 

VICTORY   .      .      .      .      .      .      ...      .      .  30 

THE  HYPOCRITE'S  REWARD  .      .      ,      .      .      .  31 

TESTIMONY  OF  HANDS 32 

THE  ASCETIC'S  VINDICATION 33 

TRANSMISSION       .      .      . 34 

PREPARATION       .      .      .      .      .      •»      ,      .      .  35 

EGYPT 36 

DUSK 37 

CONFLICT       . 38 

To  THE  CROWD 39 

AUTUMN   ...  40 


THE  GATES  OF  UTTERANCE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  GATES  OF  UTTERANCE 

THERE  is  a  throng  within  the  gates, 
A  pressing,  diverse  throng; 

Without,  a  peaceful  throng  awaits, 
To  which  I  would  belong. 

Within  the  gates  the  varied  folk 

Advise  discordantly; 
Without,  the  poet-crowds  convoke 

To  council  harmony. 

Within  the  gates  are  all  the  heights 
And  depths  of  serried  powers; 

But  when  a  lyric  theme  invites, 
I  reach  out-lying  bowers 

Where  dwell  the  bards  of  quiet  years ; 

I  join  my  song  to  theirs; 
My  glad,  unfettered  spirit  hears 

The  melody  it  shares. 


[1] 


THE  RIDERS 

You  look  askance  at  me. 
Do  you  take  my  horse 
For  Pegasus?     Of  course 
He  steps  like  Poetry, 
But  he's  a  quiet  beast. 
I  think  I  hear  you  say 
You  don't  like  in  the  least 
His  fleet-footed  way. 

But  your  light  flitting  mare 
Skims  the  meadows  too. 
Her  nimble  feet  pursue 
The  stony  dales,  dare 
The  sloping  pastures,  leap 
The  brooks.     You  do  the  things 
I  do  in  dreams,  asleep  — 
(Pegasus  has  wings)  ! 

You  canter  wide-awake. 

Your  mare  is  real ;  my  steed 

Imaginary.     Need 

You  then  suspect  me?     Take 

The  cloud-rack  by  my  side ! 

Partners,  Life  and  Art, 

Adventurers,  we  ride 

To  rhythms  in  heaven's  heart. 


[2] 


COMPENSATION 

You  never  told  me,  never,  yet  I  know 
You  hold  a  sadness  in  disguise,  unseen 
Behind  the  days  and  years  that  intervene 
Since  you  renounced  ambition  long  ago. 
Whence  comes  the  tender  love  that  you  bestow 
To  feed  our  loves?     Behind  your  self  serene 
There  burns  a  golden  passion, —  how  you  screen 
With  radiant  life  the  flame  you  must  forego ! 
Then  you  assume  our  love  is  ample  meed, 
Atonement, —  oh !  I  wonder  any  deed 
Of  ours  can  ease  your  spirit's  lassitude, 
Or  lift  your  lonely  heart !     Our  stars  elude 
Your  sun  that  made  them  bright  —  your  soli 
tude. 
Deprived,  no  boon  avails  to  fill  your  need. 


[3] 


REALITY 

WHAT  things  are  real? 

This  falling,  falling  rain, 
This  garden  where 

My  flowers  droop  again? 

Or  simply  dreams, 
Dreams  asleep  in  me 

Until  I  join 

Their  silent  company? 


THE  BAT 

OVER  the  river  of  sorrow 
Spread  thy  drab  wings  wide. 
Cool  is  the  river.     Glide 
Between  the  trees.     Borrow 
The  prudent  feet  of  the  fleeing 
Beast.     Thy  pinions  blend 
With  leaves.     O  thou  All-Seeing, 
Be  night's  obedient  friend ! 

To  a  gloomy  bat,  all  sorrow 

Is  cool  and  sombre  and  sweet. 

So  no  wonder  thou  fearest  to  meet 

The  feline  light  of  to-morrow. 

When  out  from  the  east  a  glimmer 

Of  twilight  corals  thy  wings, 

Thy  vision  grows  dimmer  and  dimmer, 

Thou  dreamer  of  dusky  things ! 

When  morning  comes  out  from  the  east, 
Advancing  with  stealthy  ray, 
Thy  wheeling  wings  betray 
Thy  presence,  Bird-and-Beast, 
Soaring  to  dismal  bowers 
With  smoke-like  motion.     Gladness, 
Flame-like,  heaps  through  the  hours 
Thine  ashen  sorrow  and  sadness. 


[5] 


Blinded  by  noon-day  splendour, 
Unseeing  till  darkness  return, 
Thy  cinereous  pinions  yearn 
For  stone-colored  night.     Surrender 
Thy  spirit.     Is  not  the  sighing 
Monotony  sweet?     Maybe 
Creation  is  what  we  call  dying, 
As  daylight  is  darkness  to  thee. 


[6] 


THE  AUDIENCE 

INTENTLY  leans  the  avid  sage 

We  name  The  Audience.     His  mood 

Invites  a  vigorous  prelude 

Of  sound,  the  silence  to  assuage, — 

The  silence  in  sequestered  sources 
Of  his  being.      (Albeit  his  mind 
And  soul  and  heart  may  be  like  wind- 
Awakened  rivers  in  their  courses.) 

In  clear,  attenuated  line, 
The  violin  a  theme  avers. 
It  is  this  theme  as  it  recurs 
That  forms  the  plenary  design, — 

This  theme,  which  the  composer's  love 
Could  never  deal  with  twice  the  same ; 
Submissive  cellos  now  proclaim 
It;  louder  clarions  above 

Now  give  it  wise  embellishment. 
In  unsuspected  ways,  all  strings 
And  pipes  resume  it,  altering 
Their  rhythms  to  be  more  eloquent. 

The  strange,  concurrent  harmonies 
Provoke  The  Audience  to  pleasure, 
Lead  by  phrase  and  clustered  measure 
To  the  peace  of  cadences. 


The  Audience  thinks  in  terms  of  tone ; 
The  curious  intellect  pursues 
The  flowing  lines  and  shadowy  hues 
Of  sound,  akin  to  sculptured  stone; 

Mind  estimates.     But  in  between 
The  mind  and  soul  an  interim 
Is  brimmed  with  intonations  dim: 
The  soul  itself  is  left  serene. 

Who  can  express  what  music  is 
To  soul  ?     A  cloud  becomes  cascade 
And  stirs  a  river  winter-weighed 
With  frost.     The  massive  images 

Of  mountains,  on  whose  purple  ground 

The  falling  water  carves  a  line 

Of  white,  as  narrow  and  as  fine 

As  winter  floods  when  first  unbound, 

Remind  one  of  the  soul  when  sound 
Traverses  it.     Music  is  spring 
To  soul,  April's  awakening, 
A  freedom  and  a  peace  profound. 

But  what  is  music  to  the  heart? 
A  trouble,  a  vicissitude, 
A  dream  no  cadence  will  conclude. 
In  it  the  surging  sounds  of  Art 

[8] 


Stay  ever  unresolved.     They  are 
Beginning  only,  origin, 
Inchoate  symphony  within 
A  symphony  of  sky  and  star. 

There  is  no  answer,  thus  and  thus, 
That  present  players  can  impart 
To  the  long-listening,  searching  heart ; 
But  answers  multitudinous. 

The  avid  sage,  The  Audience, 
Is  wrapped  in  his  own  silence  dim. 
The  mind,  the  soul,  the  heart  in  him 
Observe  the  circling  consonance 

Of  chords.     These  grow  more  intricate 
Each  time  they  are  resumed,  and  still 
One  chosen  theme  the  tones  fulfill, 
One  motion  they  delineate. 

So  God  reveals  Himself  to  me. 

I  am  His  audience ;  I  hear 

With  mind  and  soul  and  heart,  His  clear, 

Progressive  theme  perpetually. 


[9] 


TO  FRANCE 

OH,  still  I  dream  of  thee,  my  France !     The  sun 
Irradiates  thy  meadows.     Stalks  of  grain 
And  aureate  beams  infusing  them  are  one. 
There  is  a  harmony  that  links  thy  plain 
To  quiet  skies ;  that  weaves  a  slender  chain 
Of  living  vine  with  wavering  light.     Where  cease 
Thy  level  spaces,  hills  dim  clouds  detain ; 
And  in  thy  south,  where  seasons  find  increase, 
The  sheaves,  like  kneeling  women,  praise  thy 
peace. 

Unwilling  and  reluctant  are  my  dreams, 

To  recognize  transforming  destinies. 

I  dream  of  thee,  my  France ;  of  mellow  beams 

That  ripen  happiness ;  of  ample  skies 

That  frame  thy  far  perspectives.     Meadows  rise 

To  them  by  poplar  spans.     Upon  thy  ways 

I  see  the  cross.     The  gentle  Saviour  dies 

With   arms    athwart   the   cloud.     As   heavenly 

rays 
Touch  earth,  His  love  a  sense  of  light  conveys. 

Is  happiness  no  more  than  a  disguise, 
A  sheathing  dream  reality  must  wear? 
If  so,  away  with  joyful  mockeries! 
My  France,  in  desolation  thou  art  fair. 
Thy  trampled  poppies  and  thy  fields  laid  bare 
Express  a  beauty  that  prosperity 
[10] 


Concealed.     Thy  joys   are  fallen;  fate  would 

spare 

No  ornament  of  peace.     But  I  can  see 
The  strange  unfolding  of  thy  destiny. 

I  love  thee,  and  would  know  thee  as  indeed 
Thou  art.     No  scythe,  a  sword  embraces  wheat. 
The  poplars  on  thy  margin  seem  to  heed 
No  more  the  wind  that  made  their  stems  throb 

sweet 

As  lyre  strings.     The  stars  alone  entreat. 
Thy  vine  is  severed  and  thy  grape  is  blood ; 
Thy   sheaves   are   souls.     Thy   rising  meadows 

meet 

The  sky  like  surging  waves  of  a  dark  flood, 
And  shadow  closes  every  quickening  bud. 

My  France,  my  France,  in  darkness  I  begin 
To  know  the  light  that  only  faith  can  shed 
Upon  thy  ways.     As  joy  and  beauty  win 
Through  death,  so  thou  shalt  win.     Art  thou 

not  fed, 

Though  fields  are  bare,  with  spiritual  bread? 
The  star-strewn  shadow  crowns  and  dignifies 
Thy  young,  submissive  God  of  the  bowed  head. 
How  newly  does  thy  sorrow  harmonize 
With  His,  whose  loving  arms  enfold  the  skies ! 


[11] 


APPROACH 

APPARELLED  in  a  mask  of  joy  till  now, 

I  knew  thee  not.     Asleep,  I  see  thy  face 

More  simply.     Sorrow's  leisure  lets  me  trace 

The  nicer  lines.     Thy  sealed  lids,  thy  brow, 

Thy  lasting  posture,  purposes  avow ; 

In  thy  spent  form  resides  a  moveless  grace. 

A  pageant  was  thy  life,  and  in  its  place 

I  find  a  truth  to  feed  and  to  endow 

My  heart.     Thy  wonted  mask  of  joy  belied 

The  meaning  death's  bare  attitude  makes  clear. 

From  living  gesture  thought  went  often  wide, 

And  I  was  poor  interpreter ;  but  here, 

Where  it  would  seem  our  thoughts  anew  divide, 

The  steady  silence  draws  thy  spirit  near. 


[12] 


DEFINITION 

As  clouds  lie  in  the  west, 
My  fairest  pleasures  rest 
In  you,  their  element 
Of  being.     Loath  to  die, 
They  ornament  your  sky, 
Amassed,  magnificent. 

They  shun  the  realms  beyond. 
Are  you  not  their  fond, 
Fair  dwelling  by  consent 
Of  time?     Why  should  they  go 
And  vanish  quite,  as  though 
They  were  not  all-content? 

My  pleasures  are  not  love, 
Else  like  the  clouds  above 
They  swiftly  would  relent. 
They  are  mild  beauty;  dim, 
Resistless  thought;  and  whim, 
And  idle  blandishment. 

Love  is  a  wilful  power, 
More  like  the  wind  or  shower 
In  which  the  cloud  is  spent. 
My  pleasures  only  screen 
The  space  of  light  serene 
In  your  deep  firmament. 

[IS] 


EMBLEMS 

WHERE  sweet  ferns  blow,  where  hemlock  shad 
ows  lie, 
Where  peaks  of  pine  o'er  oak-twined  branches 

reach, 

In  groves  where  bend  the  poplar  and  the  beech, 
Where  emerald  willows  touch  the  emerald  sky, 
They  come  to  us,  the  Lost  Ones.     Far  and  high 
The  winds  among  the  trees  lift  muffled  speech, 
And  tell  the  hidden  past ;  we  question  each 
Entreating  form  those  winds  identify. 
Below  the  hill  they  huddle  stone  by  stone, 
The  lost  ones  and  the  loved  ones  we  have  known, 
Who  followed,  fearless,  ways  where  beauty  led; 
But  here  upon  the  hilltop,  winds  intone 
The  foregone  past.     Oh,  let  us  think  instead, 
The  living  trees  are  emblems  of  our  dead. 


[14] 


THE  POET'S  THRIFT 

MY  landscape  only  need  comprise  low  hills, 
For  these  are  eminent  and  limitless 
To  me.     They  mean  more  than  my  dreams  ex 
press  ; 

They  mean  more  than  my  word  or  deed  fulfils. 
The  slender  trees,  the  tuneless  whip-poor-wills, 
Impart  quite  ample  themes  to  loneliness. 
I  find  enough  in  scant  elusiveness 
Of  springs  and  little  brooks.     My  spirit  thrills 
To  beauty,  unprepared  for  the  sublime. 
I  wonder,  though,  when  I  shall  be  completed 
Even  to  transcribe  these  hills?     Sometime 
This  landscape  in  few  lines  will  show  to  me 
The  subtle  mysteries  I  have  entreated, 
In  the  simple  realm  of  poetry. 


SOLICITUDE 

To  me,  your  transport  is  a  dim  surmise, 
A  vague,  imagined  bliss.     But  I  will  brace 
Myself  to  life ;  though  languid  for  the  chase, 
Will  gird  my  grief.     Where  your  swift  pleasure 

flies  — 

Beneath  whatever  mirth-alluring  skies  — 
I'll  follow,  lest  you  pause  in  darkling  space. 
Oh,  let  me  gather  stars,  and  turn  your  face 
To  these,  lest,  meeting  night,  you  breathe  faint 

sighs ! 

Is  joy  illusion?     This,  in  sooth,  is  clear, — 
The  pause  of  weariness ;  and  should  I  hear 
You  drop  a  single  sombre  semi-tone 
From  Paradise,  I'd  gather  every  star ; 
For  I  divine  what  it  must  be  to  mar 
This  wonder  that  my  breast  has  never  known. 


[16] 


ASPIRATION 

THOUGH  my  frail  soul  should  never  touch  again 

The  semblance  of  reality  like  this ; 

Through  periods  of  time  should  always  miss 

The  imprint  of  true  life ;  nor  find  the  plain, 

Familiar  mould  of  being ;  still  not  vain 

Are  those  desires  that  frame  undying  bliss. 

The  sky  is  not  a  vanishing  abyss 

To  me,  but  steadfast  beauty,  sheathing  pain. 

I  live  in  confidence.     As  planets  turn 

About  the  sun,  continually  I  yearn 

To  God.     His  interpenetrating  fire 

Is  all  I  need.     Though  heaven  prove  mockery, 

My  life  ascends  by  dint  of  sheer  desire, 

Imbued  with  hopes  of  immortality. 


[17] 


JOY 

How  shall  I  make  of  joy  discovery? 

For  is  it  not  an  orbit  that  enspheres 

The  heart?     Like  misty  heaven,  as  one  nears, 

The  circuit  spreads ;  and  like  the  flowing  sea 

Whose  waves  evolve  a  scroll  of  mystery, 

Its  vague  development  eludes  the  seers. 

It  is  a  garment  like  the  shrouding  years, — 

A  dusky  shield,  a  cloudy  canopy, 

Illumined  by  the  soul  that  stands  beneath. 

It  must  forever  amplify,  deploy, 

Give  spirit  space, —  that's  all  I  know  of  joy. 

It  is  a  hovering  defense,  a  sheath, 

In  which  the  spirit  comes  to  flowering, 

A  folding  and  a  cool  enfolded  wing. 


[18] 


EDUCATION 

I  HAD  lived  many  years  when  first  I  met 

What  men  call  Sorrow.     I  had  long  conceived 

A  semblance  of  it,  thought  I  had  achieved 

That  magnitude,  when  side  by  side  I  set 

My  lonely  days.     I  knew  the  alphabet 

Of  Life's  experience,  and  I  believed 

That     when     I     touched     another's     grief, 

grieved ;  — 

But  when  at  last  I  was  myself  beset, 
I  marveled.     Little  had  I  known.     They  told 
Me  and  they  showed  me  death,  but  finally, 
Like  shifting  clouds  no  foresight  can  explain, 
I  felt  the  changeful  years  envelop  me. 
I  was  not  loath  to  meet  at  last  with  pain, 
But  oh !  to  feel  the  youth  my  age  could  hold ! 


[19] 


EVIDENCE 

IF  there  is  any  one  device  to  show 

Me  God,  by  which  His  aim  is  apprehended, 

Is  it  not  forgiveness  ?     You  extended 

Zones  of  lovelier  truth  a  while  ago, 

My  friend,  when  you  considered  me  as  though 

I  had  not  been  unfaithful,  nor  offended 

The  deep  love  in  which  our  lives  are  blended. 

Yes,  by  your  acquittal  I  forego 

Mistrust.    Your  pardon  is  the  pledge  of  powers 

By  which  we  rise  to  new  degrees  of  being. 

Now  I  read  the  crucifix  that  sealed 

The  years.     Your  loving-kindness  has  revealed 

The  symbol.     The  significance  is  ours. 

We  take  the  step  from  symbol  on  to  seeing. 


[20] 


PROGRESSION 

THE  resonance  of  wind  and  wave 

Is  put  to  music  by  the  tide; 
So  passion  modulates  to  verse, 

And  moves  in  rhythm's  quiet  stride. 

The  bards  in  realms  enchanted  hold 
Familiar  converse,  like  the  birds ; 

Repeat  emotion,  improvise, 

Sustain  the  fundamental  words, — 

Until,  forsaking  pastorals, 

They  must  pursue  Life's  ampler  prose,- 
A  continuity  of  song 

The  heart's  experience  only  knows. 


[21] 


INTUITION 

RHYTHMS  of  exultation  flow 
In  dusky  regions  far  behind 
The  formal  meadows  of  the  mind. 
Sighs  waft  syllables,  as  blow 
The  winds  the  grasses  to  and  fro. 

The  shape  of  cloud,  as  thought  effaces 
Dream,  eclipses  the  moon's  lustre. 
My  winged  stars,  like  swallows,  cluster 
In  the  deep  enchanted  spaces 
That  imagination  traces. 


[22] 


KINDRED 

WHAT  inequality! 

The  apple  trees  and  stones 

Are  kindred.     Love,  the  stormy  aeons 

Have  made  my  spirit  bleak  and  grey. 

Like  sun-emblazoned  leaves 
Or  blossoms  in  the  spring, 
Your  loveliness,  o'ershadowing, 
A  garland  for  my  spirit  weaves. 


[23] 


RESIGNATION 

THE  dark  house  yonder  is  my  life ; 

It  looms  against  the  purple  night ; 
The  windows  are  my  stars ;  I  count 

Them  all, —  each  window  one  delight. 

Oh!  there  are  many  stars  above, 
But  mine  in  strong  substantial  woe 

Are  framed ;  I  cannot  misconstrue 
Life's  dark  intent,  joy's  fitful  glow. 


[24] 


SOLACE  OF  SEASONS 

COLD  winter  finds  no  word  of  condolence. 

I  laid  my  grief  where  pastures  bright  in  spring 

Bore  panacea,  with  young  life  whispering ; 

I  laid  my  grief  in  summer  by  the  side 

Of  a  deep  sea  that  brought  a  healing  tide ; 

When  autumn  came,  I  laid  it  in  a  cloud; 

The  strong  wind  bore  it  in  that  balmy  shroud : 

Cold  winter  finds  no  word  of  condolence. 

When  skies  above  are  bleak,  I  will  not  care ; 
A  flame  I'll  kindle  for  my  chill  despair, 
A  flame  within  my  heart,  for  condolence. 


[25] 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

MY  garden  fountain  sings  to-night, 
Its  margin  is  all  moist  with  spray, — 

That  snow-white  marble  margin  where 
A  white  rose  dreams  of  drooping  day. 

Upon  the  rose  fall  rhythmic  drops, 

Snow-cool  from  the  pale  fountain's  crest,- 

Drops  cooler  than  the  shadows  when 
The  sun  leads  day-spring  to  the  west. 

Unto  the  rose,  my  fountain's  rim 

Is  ample  joy,  while  I,  through  tears, 

Can  see  my  garden  growing  dim, 

And  dream  of  sorrow's  girding  spheres. 


[26] 


THE  THRESHOLD 

I  THREADED  endless  aisles 
Of  level  trees,  of  spare, 
Undeviating  wood; 
I  penetrated  streets 
Of  houses  parallel; 
I  crossed  a  common  where 
My  day  paused  sentinel; 
At  evenfall  I  stood 
Before  the  dim  defiles 
Of  dusk,  where  light  retreats, 
Immured  in  sombre  ward. 
The  sheathed  sun  went  down ; 
Opaque  was  heaven's  frown; 
Mountains,  looming  grey, 
Framed  the  threshold  —  yea  - 
The  portal  to  the  Lord. 


[27] 


THE  HERMIT 

I  MARK  the  hermit's  den, 
And  ponder  why  he  fled 

So  far  from  other  men ; 

Why  chose  to  make  his  bed 

In  lonely  Nature's  fen. 

For  surely  he  must  tread 
On  yearnings  even  there ; 

And  he  must  see  —  outspread 
The  vital  branches  bear 

The  burden  of  Christ  dead. 


[28] 


INTERPRETATION 

MY  flesh  aspired  to  soul's  vitality. 

In  mortal  life's  imperfect  span 

I  read  the  stately  spirit's  plan, 

Like  scroll  of  cloud  in  heaven's  immensity. 

Deciphering,  it  seemed  a  baneful  tryst, — 

The  flesh  with  radiant  soul  conferred 

Until  the  purport  of  the  Word 

Was  manifest. —     The  Word  was  even  Christ. 


[29] 


VICTORY 

WHAT  are  the  friends  of  Jesus  thinking, 

As  they  see 
Him  crucified  against  the  sky's 

Blue  mystery? 

And  Jesus,  what  can  He  be  thinking 

On  the  cross? 
He  looks  upon  the  shadow  throng 

Whom  passions  toss. 

They  know  a  fervent  exultation, 

Like  day-spring 
Above  their  sorrow,  and  the  promise 

Of  their  King. 

But  Jesus,  what  can  He  be  thinking? 

Crown  of  thorns, 
The  memory  of  strife,  His  sovereign 

Soul  adorns. 


[30] 


THE  HYPOCRITE'S  REWARD 

WHEN  came  his  final  judgment, 
God  gave  him  for  his  prize 

The  crown,  the  single  sceptre, 
He'd  worn  as  his  disguise. 

The  crown,  the  single  sceptre, 
A  new,  familiar  shame; 

For  when  he  came  to  judgment, 
He  wore  them  in  God's  name. 


[31] 


TESTIMONY  OF  HANDS 

Is  every  day  the  judgment  day? 
A  thousand  mortals  lift  on  high 

A  throng  of  hands  that  plead  and  pray ; 
Beneath  a  space  of  quiet  sky, 
Their  several  gestures  testify. 

'Ui,  mark  the  wistful  hand  that  holds 
A  sorrow  in  its  upturned  palm ; 

The  gentle  hand  that  firmly  folds 
Across  the  breast  to  make  it  calm. 
Oh,  mark  the  hand  by  which  the  balm 

Of  youth  was  scattered,  eloquent 
As  the  grey  leaf  upon  the  tree 

When  summer's  mellow  joy  is  spent. 
Above  that  throng  of  hands,  oh,  see 
The  Hand  that  plies  eternity. 


[32] 


THE  ASCETIC'S  VINDICATION 

How  strange  are  we !  —  From  pale  St.  Francis 
down, 

Our  solemn  joy,  our  pain, 
Commanding,  notable ;  our  hearts,  anon 

Like  flames  no  walls  contain, 
Anon  like  wings  that  search  oblivion. 

We  make  of  time  a  pleading  orison ; 

We  pierce  earth's  dim  domain; 
We  glance  with  eager  eyes  from  faces  wan ; 

We  strive ;  we  press ;  we  gain ; 
We  count  not  squandered  strength.     When  life 
is  done, 

Men  shall  affirm  through  us  the  Saviour  shone. 

We  crave  adventure;  we  attain, 
Defying  death,  immortal  benison. 

"  How  strange  you  are,  how  vain !  " 
Phlegmatic  minds  assert  in  unison. 


[33] 


TRANSMISSION 

A  SHELL  expressed  the  verity 

In  tones  more  limpid  than  the  sea, — 

Distilled  the  sea's  infinity. 

A  mellow  leaf  disclosed  the  true 
In  more  than  sun's  pellucid  hue, 
The  sun  was  tinged  in  passing  through. 

A  wing  revealed  the  sky  unseen, 
Till  motion  made  the  air  serene, — 
A  wing  —  a  soaring  life,  I  mean. 


[34] 


PREPARATION 

A  TIME  will  come  when  I  shall  breathe 

New  melodies  to  soothe  and  fold, 
Like  portions  of  a  mellow  sheath, 

My  sorrow.     While  my  songs  withhold 
Their  tones,  I  pause  before  the  years ; 

I  gaze  on  the  gray  world ;  I  strive 
To  clear  the  mist  of  doubting  tears. 

—  My  songs,  what  music  you'll  derive 
From  silence  in  the  time  to  come! 


[35] 


EGYPT 

How  still  is  Egypt,  as  a  corpse's  breast; 

Her  power  is  muffled,  stone  on  stone ; 
The  sinews  of  her  kingdom  lie  at  rest ; 

Her  deserts  wake  no  pulse's  moan. 

The  Nile  is  like  an  adamantine  sea; 

Sky's  cloud  and  star,  like  soundless  flame ; 
The  moon  in  silence  mourns  eternity, 

And  calls  blind  man  with  magic  claim. 

The  hushed,  impenetrable  fear,  the  peace 
Of  wings,  the  palm's  inwoven  spray, 

Are  like  death's  pause  before  the  soul's  release 
Into  another  golden  day! 


[36] 


DUSK 

As  flowers  at  dusk  their  choicest  perfumes  hold, 
Some  hearts  hoard  beauty  when  the  body's  old: 
I  see  an  age-bent  woman  lead  the  herd 
To  pasture,  with  no  need  of  guiding  word. 

While  the  dull  beasts  in  the  tall  grasses  browse, 
Inside  her  soul  the  earth's  enchantments  drowse ; 
The  needles  pause  between  her  wasted  hands, 
For  light  is  always  mellow  where  she  stands. 

No  motion  marks  her  life's  harmonious  dream ; 
It  is  a  part  of  Nature's  quiet  theme. 
Each  day  renews  the  uneventful  past, 
Although  her  spirit  nears  a  change  at  last. 

From  the  grey  threshold  of  her  silent  home 
One  night,  her  spirit,  kin  to  evening's  shade, 
Will  float  away  from  crevices  life  made, 
Like  seaweed  from  a  cliff  into  white  foam. 


[37] 


DIVIDED  by  the  dark, 

Our  foils  converge.     A  spark 

You  kindled  not,  My  Enemy, 

A  spark  I  never  drew 

From  bitter  fires  that  sear  me  through 

and  through, 
Gleams  fitfully. 

That  spark,  that  little  light, 

Is  lit  where  foils  unite. 

It  lives  in  spite  of  us,  My  Foe ; 

In  intervening  space, 

This  little  eye  that  darts  from  place 

to  place 
Sees  clear,  I  know. 

Opinions  are  not  one, 

And  man's  criterion 

Is  not  in  us.     Between,  above, 

The  cross  that  weapons  frame, 

My  Adversary,  gleams  a  truth  whose 

name 
Might  still  be  Love. 


[38] 


TO  THE  CROWD 

WHEN  I  hold  a  budding  pleasure 
In  my  heart,  can  I  diffuse  it? 

No ;  you  want  the  musk  full-measure, 
Not  the  bud, —  so  you  refuse  it. 

When  I  hold  an  ebbing  sorrow, 
Can  I  share  the  balm  with  you? 

No ;  you  want  no  lessening  morrow, 
But  meridian's  deepest  hue. 

Blossom  of  my  joy  completest, 
Zenith  of  my  sorrow's  hour, 

Yours.     So  I  may  keep  the  sweetest : 
Buds  and  lees  —  ambrosial  power. 


[39] 


AUTUMN 

CAPKICIOUS  little  poem  and  sapling  rhyme 
Grew  on  the  golden  hillside  of  my  youth. 
The  stanzas  were  as  crooked  and  uncouth 
As  early  things  are  wont  to  be.     For  time 
Was  pressing  and  mid-summer's  glowing  prime 
Was  ever  imminent.     Mysterious  truth 
Was    the    warm    soil    thought    sprouted    from. 

Forsooth 

My  songs  were  stem  and  filament  to  climb. 
But  now,  the  memory  of  bud  and  fruit 
And  flower  is  weariness.     This  present  week 
In  mid-September,  wayward  wild  pursuit 
Is  over;  youth  fulfilled.     How  shall  they  seek 
Beyond,  unless  from  sunbeams  in  the  skies 
These  listless  leaves  take  warmer  harmonies  ? 


[40] 


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